


Sleeves

by McBangle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Self-Harm, Swearing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McBangle/pseuds/McBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmates AU where your mark shows the name of your soulmate. How would you feel if your soulmark said "Shitty"?</p><p>
  <i>Larissa Duan always wore long sleeves. Even in the summer. She’d developed a habit of pulling her sleeves down over her hands even though she knew the marks didn’t come more than three-quarters of the way down her forearm. She never used the high school locker room shower no matter how badly the other girls had taunted her. She’d stopped accepting invitations to slumber parties after her soulmark had come in, and shortly after that, the invitations had stopped coming anyway. Whenever anyone asked her soulmate’s name (and those questions were rare these days), she’d tell them she didn’t have one. It was basically true, anyway.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeves

**Author's Note:**

> Larissa "Lardo" Duan, Shitty Knight, Samwell University, and other characters who may or may not pop up in the course of this story belong to [Ngozi Okazu](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/).

Larissa Duan always wore long sleeves. Even in the summer. She’d developed a habit of pulling her sleeves down over her hands even though she knew the marks didn’t come more than three-quarters of the way down her forearm. She never used the high school locker room shower no matter how badly the other girls had taunted her. She’d stopped accepting invitations to slumber parties after her soulmark had come in, and shortly after that, the invitations had stopped coming anyway. Whenever anyone asked her soulmate’s name (and those questions were rare these days), she’d tell them she didn’t have one. It was basically true, anyway.

She thought of her life as before and after the soulmark. Before, she’d been just like the other girls. A little quiet, never the center of attention, but always perfectly average.

Like all kids, she’d been fascinated by every freckle, mole, scrape or ink stain on her skin, always wondering which ones would one day coalesce to form the name of her soulmate. In the sixth grade, she and every other girl in her class had been obsessed with the marks darkening, spreading, forming letters on their skin. Every time a letter became legible on a friend’s soulmark, they would giggle over it, guessing at the name it was spelling.

The boys pretended not to care, but she’d noticed them sneaking hopeful glances at their marks as well.

She’d been so envious of the early bloomers whose soulmarks were already complete. Ashleigh had proudly shown off the “Tyler” on her shoulder, and everyone had speculated on whether it was Tyler N. or Tyler T (Larissa thought it was more likely some other Tyler who didn’t go to their school. It’s not as though there was a shortage of Tylers). Tori had blushed prettily when “Ana” had bloomed in curlicue script above her ankle.

Before, Larissa had been jealous as each of her friends’ soulmarks had come in. Hers was still blurry. For months, she’d been convinced that the first letter was a B, but she couldn’t make out any of the others no matter how hard she’d tried. Her mother told her that she was just a late bloomer, but every night, she’d hoped against hope that the name of her soulmate would come in by morning.

Until she woke up one morning at age twelve, with “ **SHITTY** ” emblazoned in bold block letters across her right forearm.

“Mommy! Daddy! What does this mean?” She ran to her parents’ bedroom in a panic. Her father asked if her she’d written it on herself. Her mother told her that it was a mistake, all a mistake, and the letters would rearrange themselves to spell a real name any day now, but Larissa could see the uncertainty in her mother’s eyes.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

“What is this?” Larissa’s mother pushed up her daughter’s sleeve and displayed the mark to the family doctor. Larissa hated the look of shock and pity that she already knew to expect on Dr. Goyal’s face.

“It… appears to be a soulmark. Perfectly normal for an adolescent girl like Larissa,” the doctor explained.

“But why does it say _that word_? On _my daughter_?” Larissa’s mother pushed.

“It… uh… could be… an exotic name. From another culture, perhaps? Nothing to worry about. Everyone gets soulmarks at this age, and they always spell the name of their soulmate. This is simply… an unusual name,” he had reassured her mother.

Dr. Goyal had been less reassuring a few minutes later after he’d asked Larissa’s mother to step out of the room (simply a routine part of every adolescent visit, he’d told her mother). “Larissa,” he’d looked her seriously in the eye. “I know that you are a very bright and creative young woman. Did you write that on your arm?”

“No!” she’d recoiled. “No! Why the fuck would I write that on me?”

“Larissa…” the doctor cautioned her. “You know the rules of my office. I expect you to speak respectfully to me, as I speak respectfully to you. Now, I want to ask you a few questions. How have you been sleeping lately?”

“Fine.” Larissa crossed her arms defensively.

“Are you eating all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” She studied her toes.

“Any trouble concentrating at school?”

“No. School’s fine. My grades are fine.” She gnawed on a lock of her hair.

“Have you been feeling bad about yourself lately?”

Larissa exploded. “Well, I wasn’t until the universe decided to tell me that I’m shitty, so how the fuck do you think that made me fucking feel?”

All that outburst got her was weekly sessions with a shrink who spent the whole time trying to get her to admit to writing it on herself.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

She retreated from her old friends. It hurt too much to hear them giggle about love when she was branded with an insult rather than a soulmate.

She grew her hair out long and let it hang over her eyes. She gave away all of her pink and floral clothes and filled her closet with all black.

She sat in the back of the room or by the wall and drew everything she saw. She avoided contact with her classmates, and dismissed them with snide remarks on the rare occasions that someone would try to talk with her, but drawing helped her feel human when nothing else did. Some of her early drawings made her cringe, but she kept drawing and kept getting better.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

She tried to cross it out, with permanent marker, ballpoint pens, anything she could get her hands on. The ink just faded away, while the mark showed as dark as ever.

She bought skin bleaching cream and applied it religiously each night, but it only increased the contrast between the mark and her bleached-pale skin.

She scrubbed at it with soap, and when that didn’t work, with a paste she’d made out of powdered bathroom detergent and water. Her skin was red and raw and her eyes stung, but the mark didn’t go anywhere.

Her mother brought her a French herbal cream. “Try it. Mrs. Nguyen said this made her son’s freckles fall right off.” Her skin burned and flaked off, but the mark stayed.

One day, she held her arm over the flame of a candle, contemplating burning it off, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

On her sixteenth birthday, with her parents’ permission, she spent hours getting a beautiful detailed tattoo on her forearm, camouflaging the mark with swirling black flowers and tendrils. The next day, she wore a sleeveless shirt for the first time in nearly four years, proud to show off her tattoo. She was awarded looks of admiration from guys and girls alike. Ashleigh and her friends had made some snide comments, but really, _fuck them_.

But within a week of her birthday, the ink surrounding each letter had faded, the mark reappearing within the tattoo, as prominent as ever before.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

She started smoking up and sneaking sips of vodka with a small group of kids during free periods and between classes. None of them talked much either, but they were all angry at the world and that was fucking fine with her. Her parents would kill her if they ever found out, but what did it fucking matter anyway? She got OK enough grades to sneak by under the radar, and she was too much of a “good girl” for the vice principals to pay her any mind.

She was accepted into Samwell early admission on the strength of her portfolio. They had a strong Arts and Visual Culture program, but more importantly to Larissa, it had a reputation of being welcoming to misfits like her.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

On the first day of classes at Samwell, the bro-iest dude Larissa had ever met sat next to her in Gender and Visual Culture class. He had shoulder-length brown hair and a moustache, was wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, cargo shorts and leather sandals, and he reeked of pot.

“Brah? Can you tear me off a few pages of notebook paper? I forgot mine.” He leaned entirely too close toward her. “I know, right? Great first impression on the first day of classes.” He shook his head. “But we had an _epic_ epikegster last night and I think I’m still a little wasted. Last night of freedom, am I right?” He held his fist up expectantly, apparently awaiting a bump in return.

Larissa looked at him as if he were crazy, and then gestured toward her laptop. “I don’t have a notebook. I have a computer.”

“Ahhhh, riiiiiiight,” he smacked his forehead. “Good thinking, brah, you are prepared for some serious learning.”

She waited for him to head off to bother someone else, but instead he settled in next to her, stretching out his legs and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Have you taken any of Professor Hunnicutt’s courses before?”

She looked about, making sure he wasn’t addressing someone sitting behind her, before replying. “No, I’m a first-year student.”

“A frog? ‘Swawesome. You are in for a fucking _treat_.” He slapped his (well-toned) thigh emphasizing the last word. “I took Prof. Hunnicutt’s Intersectionality and Feminist Activism last semester. It changed my fucking life, I shit you not.” Apparently an eternal optimist, he yet again held his fist up, even after she’d left him hanging the first time. “Can I get a bump to a fine semester of higher learning?”

Larissa stared at him for a beat too long before returning the fist bump this time. Against her better judgement, she had to admit that he had very nice green eyes. And from what she could see under his open shirt, he was _cut_. Not that he was her type. Oh, no, _definitely_ not.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

She was sure that she had the bro-y guy pegged as just another jock burning off a required elective while trying to pick up women. She was wrong. He sat in different seats each class, always chatting up his neighbors, so she didn’t speak much to him after that first class, but he consistently asked insightful (albeit colorfully phrased) questions, and he took copious notes once he’d located his notebook. He was also gregarious, and funny. And – a girl can look, okay – he had a _really_ nice ass.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

A couple of weeks into the semester, Larissa saw an ad for a work-study position as manager of the men’s hockey team. She’d never been into sports and knew next-to-nothing about hockey, but she _really_ needed the money. She was already running low on money from her summer job, and winter break was a long way away.

A nondescript-looking man answered the door to the hockey house (no, _Haus_ , according to the ad she’d read). When she explained what she was there for, he turned and yelled “Shitty! There’s an applicant for the manager position here to see you!”

Larissa stiffened and pulled her sleeve down. He couldn’t possibly have seen her mark, could he?

“Aren’t you going to join me for the interview, Johnson?” a familiar voice asked from inside the house.

“No,” the man who’d greeted her at the door replied as he walked away, “I’m not needed for this part of the story.”

“Johnson, you glorious bastard, you are fucking weird, and I love you,” the bro-y dude answered, looking over his shoulder as he approached the door. Wearing nothing but red boxer briefs and mirrored sunglasses.

His face broke into the biggest and warmest smile she’d ever seen in her life when he turned to face her. “It’s you!” he exclaimed, pulling off the sunglasses. “Laptop Girl from Gender and Visual Culture! Are you here to apply for the manager position?”

She nodded dumbly, unable to find words at the moment.

“You OK with numbers?”

“Uh… yeah?” she cleared her throat.

“Willing to hang out with big, dumb, smelly, heteronormative jocks?”

“I… guess so…”

“You gonna hold your own? Not gonna let us walk all over you, are you?”

“Uh, no, I…”

“You’ve got the job!” He enveloped her hand in a warm two-handed handshake before pulling her in for a hug. “Aw, what the fuck am I thinking, a new job deserves a hug!”

Larissa felt something warm inside of her. She wished the hug could go on forever, but – “Wait… wait…”

“Aw, fuck, too much?” He let go of her and took two steps backwards, hands up in the air in supplication. “Sometimes I do not respect people’s personal space, that is a failing of mine and I am working on it, but brah, I am super-sorry if that was too much.”

“No, no, I…” Larissa shook her head, trying to clear it. “Is… did I… are you… Is your name Shitty?”

He beamed again. “It’s not the name my parents gave me, but it’s the only one I answer to these days. Shitty Knight.” He mimed taking off his nonexistent hat and bowing.

Larissa trembled. Actually _trembled_. She was not a trembler. “I… I… _this_.” She pushed up her right sleeve, voluntarily showing her mark to someone for the first time since she’d tried to get it tattooed over.

Shitty gasped then took a step closer. “May I?” he asked reverentially, his fingers hovering ever so slightly over her forearm.

Larissa took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

With feather-light touches, he traced his fingers over the letters of his name, then sighed. “Holy fucking A, that is beautiful.”

Her eyes snapped open again. “Beautiful? What are you –?” And then, for the first time in over two years, Larissa took a clear look at her mark.

Shitty’s name was still clearly visible, a halo of unmarked skin surrounding the letters. But somehow, her soulmark had merged with the pattern of the tattoo, each letter blooming with flowers, curlicues and spirals. Her eyes filled with tears. It _was_ beautiful.

“Your name is Lar-something, isn’t it?” he breathed out.

She nodded, wondering when she had told him her name. “Larissa Duan.”

“Fucking yes!” he clapped his hands, suddenly ebullient. “Check this out!” And then he turned around and dropped trou.

“Shitty! Keep your pants on outside of your room!” a Québécois-accented voice shouted.

“Fuck you, Jack, this is important!” Shitty yelled, pointing at his butt. There, in small and neat letters atop the crest of his (very fine) left butt cheek, read “L-a-r-”. And the last few letters were indistinct.

Larissa furrowed her brow. “It’s blurry.”

Shitty stood, pulling up his boxer briefs. “I know! For years I thought it said ‘Lars’ and I was like ‘I’m bi? ‘Swawesome!’ But I never found my Lars. I mean, I found one Lars, but he _definitely_ wasn’t into me, and, eh, he wasn’t really my type, to be honest.”

“I guess you were looking in the wrong places,” Larissa smiled, something blooming inside her like the beautiful name blooming on her arm.

“I know, right? I should’ve placed an ad for a manager _much_ sooner,” he beamed back at her, entwining his fingers with hers. He took a step closer to her, then suddenly gasped. “Speaking of which!” He dropped her hand and started pacing.

“What is it?”

“If you’re going to be our manager, then you’ll need a hockey name. This is a critical moment. This is _the_ name all of the SMH brahs will know you by for the rest of your life.” He placed his fingers to his temples and continued pacing. “Larissa Duan… Larissa Duan…” Suddenly he stopped short, snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “LARDO!”

“Lardo?” She crinkled her nose.

“Yes! It’s the perfect hockey name! Larissa Duan… Lardo!” Seeing her look of distaste, he added, “It’s ironic. Everyone!” He wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “Meet our new manager! Lardo!”

“Lardo!” a handful of voices shouted out, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“And she’s my soulmate!” Shitty added.

“LARDO!” Suddenly Larissa – Lardo – was surrounded by a mass of hugging hockey brahs.

_/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_   _/ \\_

Lardo woke up first the next morning, and took the opportunity to admire her soulmate’s fit body. Shitty was sprawled on his stomach, which gave her a very nice look at his ass. Something caught her eye.

“Shitty,” she poked him. “Shitty, wake up, did you do this?”

He yawned and rolled over on his back without opening his eyes. “Ownership is a capitalist-imperialist concept that…” He drifted off into snores again.

She poked him hard. “Wake UP Shitty, you’ve got to see this.”

He sat up, looking groggily about the room. “What? What? Where is it?”

“Lie back down on your stomach again,” she ordered him.

“Wake up, go back to sleep, make up your mind,” he complained. “This brings to mind the immortal words of bell hooks…”

“ _Don’t_ fall asleep,” Lardo poked him again in the side. “Just lie on your stomach for a moment. You’ll want to see this.”

She grabbed her phone off the floor and snapped a few pictures of his butt, then flopped down next to him and held the phone where they could both see the pictures.

There, on the top of his left buttcheek, in her own neat handwriting, and clear as day, his soulmark read “Lardo”.

**Author's Note:**

> I pretty much almost never write angst, so this was quite different for me, but I couldn't stop thinking about what it would have been like for Lardo in a soulmates AU in which she developed a soulmark, long before meeting him, which read "Shitty". Concrits much appreciated!


End file.
